by C. R. May
To their surprise Cola returned soon after accompanied by a pair of Saxon warriors and whilst one escorted Unferth back to the holy wall the other apparently had been sent to help them understand the things which they would witness this midsummer's eve. Beowulf automatically appraised the man as he stepped forward to introduce himself. Tall and broad the warrior wore a fine shirt of leather lamellar armour, similar in cut to his own solid leather battle shirt. Unlike his own battle shirt however the design also allowed independent shoulder protectors to be attached to the main shirt, the inherent flexibility offered by the leather scales obviously being far less restrictive in use. Beneath this the man wore a short sleeved green linen under shirt hemmed in fine gold braid, whilst a wide silver buckled belt hung at his waist in the Saxon style.
“Welcome to the Osning, lord” The Saxon beamed. “My name is Brand. I have been instructed to accompany your party this evening to help you to understand the ceremonies which take place here.”
Brand looked to be about seventeen or eighteen winters old and the gods had apparently decided to add a natural relaxed charm to the good looks and fine physique with which they had blessed the young man. He reminded Beowulf of the Swedish warrior, Alf, whom he had known during his time in Swede Land as an eardwræcca, an exile, several years ago. It augured well for the day.
Brand indicated to the horses with a flick of his head and a lazzi hastened across to lead them away as Beowulf introduced Cola and Hrafn to their guide.
“I was just admiring your war shirt, Brand. I have seen metal lamellar armour before but not leather. How do you rate its effectiveness?”
Brand twisted and flexed to illustrate the shirts best properties as they walked across to the great oak.
“I like to wear this during the summer, lord,” he began. “Its much lighter than mail and keeps much cooler in the sun. I can wear just a linen under shirt and remain cool all day. As long as you keep the leather plates well greased it stays supple and water proof. Some men wear it during battle with a padded under shirt and say that it can be very effective but I have a mail byrnie and battle coat similar to your own for any serious battle play.”
Beowulf nodded and remarked on the series of unusual scars which the man bore on his upper arm. They resembled a series of puncture wounds and he had not seen their like before. Brand glanced down and rolled up his sleeve to reveal an arc of old scars.
“Dog bites, lord, from a Francish war dog.” Brand continued as he noticed Beowulf's surprised expression. “The Francs often release huge dogs as they charge at a shield wall and then, just as they hit, follow up with a volley of francisca throwing axes. It can be devastating if you are not expecting it...” Brand's voice trailed off as he realised that Beowulf and his men would be anxious for the fate of the army now that the Francs were apparently moving against them. “I am sure that your king can handle Francs, lord,” he offered. “They covet our lands but we beat them off every time, despite their numbers. They have forsaken the gods for a weak god, the white god, and Saxnot will punish them for their disloyalty.”
Beowulf seized on the chance to gain more recent information on the activities of the Francish army. He was desperate to return to the Geat army which he knew to be at Dorestada in Frisland but he had promised Woden that he would remain for this evenings ceremonies. Brand stopped and faced them as he shared all the information which had reached them in the Osning.
“Folk and traders coming up the River Lupia which runs west from here down to the Rin, say that King Theodoric has gathered a mighty army from amongst the Hetware, Bructeri and Cherusci and is moving against your king.” Brand smiled at Beowulf's concerned expression and continued. “We know of the size and ability of the Geatish army in Frisland. We also know what it is like to face apparently overwhelming numbers of Francs but continually win the day nevertheless. The only way that the Francs will defeat your king is if he makes a mistake like dividing his forces which he would never do, would he lord.”
As the sun moved down to clip the summit of the god wall Beowulf asked Brand to show them the Irminsul. They had travelled for over a month to reach this place and it was to be the centre of the midsummer festival the following sunrise. To their surprise Brand started to move away from the giant oak and began to lead them towards the pale columns of the ridge stones. Beowulf called after the Saxon as he strode away.
“I asked to see the Irminsul, Brand, not the god wall.”
Brand turned back in confusion.
“Yes, lord, that is the Irminsul, the tall column in the centre. The volur, Albruna, has her cell at the summit. It is where you will rejoin the warloca and spend the last hours before dawn.” Brand noticed the look of concern sweep across Beowulf's face. It was the first time that he heard that he would be present at the moment that Unferth delivered the head of Grendel to Woden and he had to admit to himself that the news was unwelcome. He had had enough contact with the gods over the years to be wary of their powers.
“Don't worry, lord,” he chuckled happily. “You will still be with us in the morning!”
Several warriors were guarding the base of the steps which led up to the summit of the Irminsul and they nodded cheerfully as Brand explained the columns to them.
“The tall narrow column in the centre is the Irminsul, as I explained, lord. The volur lives there and never leaves. She receives all visitors in her cell there, it is where your friend the warloca is preparing to meet the Allfather as we speak. To the right the large stone represents Woden, the Allfather, and the smaller columns represent Saxnot, Tiwaz and Ing.”
Beowulf stared up at the sheer columns of rock which towered above the valley floor. Steps had been cut into the column to the side of the Irminsul which curled, serpent like, to the summit. There, a narrow bridge connected the pathway to the Volur's cell. Beowulf shuddered as he imagined the rites which were being practised in the tiny room at this very moment and decided to move on.
“What is the giant oak then Brand if it is not the Irminsul? It seems to be the centre of attention.”
“Thunor's oak?” Brand replied. “You will find out the power which lies there after dark,” he added mysteriously. The space before the tree is kept free for men and women who wish Thunor to bless their union. It is a very special honour and they must show commitment by travelling to the tree on foot. Each year ten couples from each Gau, our name for the area ruled by an ealdorling, are invited to participate. It is a great honour for them.”
Cola looked at Brand in amazement. The Englishman had always worshipped Thunor, as did most of his people, and he was keen to find out which form this 'power' would take.
“Will Thunor be here?” he asked in wonderment.
Brand smiled warmly as he noticed the hammer of Thunor which hung at Cola's neck for the first time. Fishing inside his shirt he pulled out a fine silver example of his own and kissed it reverently as he replied.
“Prepare to be astonished, Cola.”
Beowulf and Hrafn hovered towards the rear of the huge mass of humanity which had gathered to share midsummer night with their gods. The last rays of the sun were finally dying to the West, directly behind the Irminsul, and an uncanny silence descended on the crowd as they waited for the gods to come amongst them. Thunor, the weather god, had earlier provided a fitting end to the old day as the horses had pulled the sun down to the rim of middle earth in a splash of reds and pinks. Now, as the sky finally transformed itself into a deep magenta the first stars began to wink into life like so many camp fires.
As the last rays were extinguished a rising note was sounded from the direction of the Irminsul and Beowulf watched as scores of brands flickered into life away to his left. Soon the multitude began to part as the procession moved forward into the space which had been reserved for them before the great oak.
They watched as the couples made their way forward beneath the torches and Beowulf recalled the explanation of the sights which he was now witnessing given to them earlier by the
ir Saxon guide. The women were resplendent in long white gowns above their everyday clothing as a mark of their virtuous state. They would wear them until they became known to their new bonda, the man with whom she would share her life and raise her children. Most of the women wore summer flowers woven into their long unbound hair and Beowulf chuckled to himself as he remembered the scrambles which he had witnessed in the past for the flowers as they were tossed to the expectant crowd. The women would bind their hair at the conclusion of the ceremony and each carried a headdress in her right hand with which to cover her head when in public. It was the most obvious sign that a woman was no longer a maiden but a man's wyf and it was thought scandalous to be seen without it outside her own home.
The procession moved forward into the clearing and disappeared from sight as the crowds moved back together. The sky had darkened rapidly as they had watched the passage of the betrothed and, looking back the West, they found that the pillars of the god wall now stood out as solid darker forms against the sky, the misshapen teeth of a monstrous giant.
Beowulf snapped off another piece of crackling and chewed noisily as Hrafn trotted across to refill their ale cups. It was true, he reflected as he crunched away, the Germans really do know how to roast pork.
Brand had left them to watch the ceremonies from a raised area which had been constructed near the lake while he had taken his fellow Thunor worshipper, Cola, off to a place nearer the Thunor oak. What form the astonishing event would take was still unknown to him, but the Saxon thegns and their men who shared the platform with them seemed singularly disinterested at the moment as they plundered the special celebratory ale which the volur's helpers had apparently been brewing for months beforehand. Wagons had deposited barrels of the special ale amongst the crowd and they had been drinking steadily since late afternoon. The ale carried a tang which Beowulf thought that he recognised from long ago, but he could not quite place where he had tasted it before. It was unusual in that it looked like the laager which he had drunk in Frisland, but tasted more like the dark ale he knew from home. The Saxons called it wit bier, white beer, and apparently the celebratory drink had been prepared using plants and grains known only to the volur and her helpers.
Hrafn returned with the beer as a great cry arose from the direction of the oak. Looking across they could just make out the shadowy images of flowers as they sailed over the torches and disappeared back into the gloom.
“Looks like that is all over, lord. Maybe we will find out what this great thing will be now?”
As if in reply to the big Swede's statement a buzz ran through the crowd as a fire flickered into life high on the god wall. In moments the flames had taken a firm hold and Beowulf and Hrafn watched as they roared hungrily skywards beneath a boiling mantle of dark grey smoke.
The setting of the fire was obviously a signal and the fellow warriors on the platform replaced their cups and moved to the edge nearest the crowd. An expectant hush descended over the bowl of the clearing as thousands of people seemed to hold their breath as they awaited the appearance of their god.
Beowulf was reminded of the great disablot he had attended at Uppsala. That day the god Frey had taken possession of the Swedish King Ongentheow and moved amongst his people. It had been an awe inspiring event which would remain in Beowulf's mind always and he searched the shadows as he sought out any signs that Thunor had likewise come amongst the Saxons.
Hrafn gently touched his arm and he looked back to the front as a soft gasp escaped from the lips of the crowd. Beowulf squinted as his eyes tried to pierce the gloom.
“No, lord,” Hrafn gasped at his side. “Not in the crowd; Look at the tree!”
Beowulf raised his head and looked across at the massive form of the Thunor oak. The flames from the pyre were roaring high into the inky blackness and the light which they threw out was dancing and flickering along the irregular fringe of the tree line. As his eyes alighted on the massive oak Beowulf too let out an involuntary gasp. The knots and limbs of the ancient tree were slowly beginning to take the form of a giant man.
To his right the Saxon thegns and their men were smiling warmly as their god took shape before them and the northerners watched in wonderment as the head and arms of the giant began to move. As the crowd began to softly chant, Thunor appeared to look down on the throng of worshippers at his feet. Slowly he reached forward with his arms and Beowulf saw that he was gripping his mighty hammer, crusher, which he seemed to hold over the gathering.
The firelight washed over the god, illuminating his features as he appeared to smile at his devotees. Beowulf suddenly became aware that the men nearest him were drawing back respectfully as the figure of a woman appeared at his side and he tore his gaze away from the fantastic events before him and glanced down.
Before him stood a tall young woman dressed in the white robes of the volur. Her long, hazel coloured hair, fell in sweeps to her waist and the beauty of her upturned face was only sullied by the almost mocking coldness which lived in her eyes. She smiled thinly and indicated towards the god wall.
“Beowulf, you are to follow me,” she ordered. “It is time for you to prepare.”
The Geat was almost there and he urged his horse forward as he tried desperately to beat the intercepting Fris riders to the crossroads. It was only one hundred yards ahead of him now and he was beginning to think that he might escape after all. He was the last member left alive from the foraging party which his thegn had sent out several days before, unaware that an advance party of the Frisian army was bearing down on Dorestada under the leadership of their young king, Ida.
The Geat cursed the roads in this gods forsaken place for the hundredth time that day. The land was so wet and waterlogged that travel was restricted to a series of man made ridges which crisscrossed the land. He had had to continually double back on himself as he tried to escape the Fris war band which had suddenly fallen on them as they had been busy chasing pigs around a muddy pen.
Luckily he had been searching the hall for food when the Frisian warriors had arrived unexpectedly and he had watched in horror as they had slit his companions bellies open and laughed as the pigs set to, eating the Geats innards which had slithered to the ground before their terror stricken eyes.
As he had watched from his hiding place the Frisian lord had arrived and finished off his friends, to the obvious disappointment of one malevolent looking bastard, chastising the man for his bestiality.
Seizing his chance he had slipped out of the hall and run to his mount, speeding south just as the cry of alarm sounded from the hall.
The horse clattered between the small halls which had grown up around the crossroads and the Geat breathed a small sigh of relief as he glanced back to see that the pursuing Fris were still fifty yards to the rear.
Dayraven watched the shadow of the Geat horseman move swiftly along the side of the building opposite him and began to swing. With perfect judgement he stepped from the shadows and brought his blade crashing down on the neck of the galloping horse. Practically beheaded by the savage blow the horse ran on for a few steps before it crashed to the roadway in a welter of flying legs, thick jets of arterial blood pumping on before it. His men clattered to a halt beside him on blown horses, their foam flecked flanks heaving like monstrous bellows. The leading rider reined in and smiled at the leader of his war band as he surveyed the carnage on the road.
“He could really ride, lord!”
Dayraven nodded and walked across to the place where the injured and dazed Geat was attempting to rise to his feet.
“Well, he has one more ride to take. Straight to Hel's dank hall!”
11
Hygelac watched, exasperated, as the great mass of the Francs drew to a halt one hundred yards before the river. He was beginning to grow very weary of the piecemeal tactics which their leader was employing against them. He had accepted that he was to die this day and, to his surprise, the acknowledgement had lightened his mood considerably. Shorn of responsibilit
y for his own wyrd and that of others, he was beginning to savor his last few hours on middle earth and was concentrating now on the manner which his death would take. Even outnumbered twenty to one the price would be high to gain the bones of a king of Geats he promised himself. He had a plan and, if even the remotest opportunity to carry it out presented itself to him, he would seize it eagerly.
The Geats looked on as the Francish line opened up to admit a series of wagons into the space between the armies. The wagons drew to a halt fifty yards south of the river and the horses were uncoupled and led back to the rear as men ran forward to surround the wagons with woven barriers.
Hygelac called across to Wulf as the men on the wagon began to assemble a series of wooden objects.
“Wulf, I don't suppose that your Frisian friend told you what they might be doing now, did he?”
The hearth warrior looked nervously across and Hygelac felt a chill run down his spine which was completely at odds with the warmth of the day. Wulf pursed his lips anxiously as he studied the strange contraptions.
“I am not sure, lord,” he began to answer before pausing, obviously deep in thought. “I seem to remember him describing something called a ballista which the Romans used to open up shield walls. It looses off a great bolt which scythes through groups of densely packed men and opens their formation up to the attackers.” A frown creased Wulf's brow as he tried to remember further details. “I am sorry, lord, that is all I can think of,” he finally admitted, adding sheepishly, “we had rather a lot to drink that night. Ale and memory never were good companions!”
A rumble of laughter came from the group as Hygelac called back to the men he had assigned as runners. They hastened forward as the warriors nervously watched the Francish preparations. Until Wulf had spoken they had imagined a glorious death, finally falling, sword in hand, surrounded by the bodies of their enemies. To be smashed to bloody pulp from a distance seemed to be a dishonourable, almost cowardly way to die. The first man pushed his way through to the king and listened attentively.